


Whatever You Want Me to Do (I Will Do)

by writeyourheart



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Mileven Day 2020, just a lil fic, thank u phoebe bridgers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:15:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27431113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeyourheart/pseuds/writeyourheart
Summary: Loving El was innate, but acknowledging it was like staring out at the stars for the hundredth time, only now wholly thinking of what they truly were — revelling in their beauty within depths of analysis rather than observing them subconsciously — seeing them for the first time in a new light.orEl is eating crackers on Mike's carpeted, basement floor when he realizes that he's in love with her.
Relationships: Eleven | Jane Hopper/Mike Wheeler
Comments: 8
Kudos: 57





	Whatever You Want Me to Do (I Will Do)

**Author's Note:**

> happy mileven day!! i just got into phoebe bridgers and after listening to this song i couldn't help but think it was so purely mundane and perfect.. so sweet and simple... so of course i had to relate it to mileven. i hope all of you enjoy! the song is titled graceland too.

_So we spent what was left of our serotonin  
To chew on our cheeks and stare at the moon  
Said she knows she'll live through it to get to this moment  
Ate a sleeve of saltines on my floor, and I knew that_

_I would do anything you want me to  
I would do anything for you  
I would do anything  
I will do anything  
Whatever you want me to do, I will do_

_\- graceland too, phoebe bridgers_

* * *

He’d always known, really. It was like a cloud; looming over him, constant and lingering and somehow always out of reach — A subconscious thing, like breathing, or dreaming.

But he’d always known, like breathing or dreaming, that it was there. It wasn’t the type of thing to question — he wouldn’t ask why the sky was blue, or why the grass was green, or why his favourite food was his mom’s homemade mac and cheese — all of that just _was_.

Loving El was no different; undeniably fitting, like nothing else in the world had ever been more authentic, more natural.

Everything about her just made sense — she existed, inexplicably and unquestionably all at once, the way everyone else did (even if many aspects of her life were not quite like his; unique, different, but still, entirely and undoubtedly herself.)

Loving El was innate, but acknowledging it was like staring out at the stars for the hundredth time, only now wholly thinking of what they truly were — revelling in their beauty within depths of analysis rather than observing them subconsciously — seeing them for the first time in a new light.

He’d always known, but she’d been sitting on his basement floor when he’d finally acknowledged it.

It was a Friday in mid-May, barely half-past midnight. They were watching some rom com Nancy had rented — the third movie they’d watched that evening — and she was perched up with her back against the couch, her knees folded up under her chin. One of her arms was wrapped around her legs, while the other hand was reaching out behind herself to stroke at his hair from where he rested on the couch, flat on his stomach.

He was falling asleep, slowly alongside the soothing movement of her fingers against his scalp, but he could tell she was barely tired.

“Are you still hungry?” His hand moved to brush at the curls on the back of her head, lazily twirling a strand around his finger.

She’d twisted towards him, and the light from the TV turned her to a dozen different colours; reds, and blues, and purples, and he couldn’t help but think of what she’d look like within the reflection of shattering fireworks later that Summer.

She smiled and then nodded gently. “A little,” she’d said, which usually meant she was decently hungry, she just didn’t want to be a bother.

Gently, he unfolded himself from the couch and reached out for her hand until they were both wandering up towards his kitchen in a daze. Everyone else was asleep — his dad still crashed out on the couch — so he didn’t turn on the kitchen light.

Instead, they’d made their way around within the dim, silver moonlight that bled in through the windows and poured against the room. One of his hands was slackened within hers as he rummaged through the cabinets with the other, though it’d have been easier to use both of them in order to make less noise.

“I think Dustin ate all the chips last night,” he’d whispered, half-cursing him. He pulled a box of simple, saltine crackers out from the depths of the cabinet in order to search for some hopeful bag of popcorn kernels, or some of the chocolate his mom usually kept around.

“That’s fine.” He’d barely heard her at first, from how low her voice was — a whisper of a whisper. He twisted his neck to look up at her from where she stood above him; he was kneeling on the kitchen tiles, half shoved within the cabinets himself.

He wasn’t sure what she meant until he’d caught her eyeing the saltine box by her feet, her thumb grazing his knuckles.

“The crackers?” She'd nodded simply, tugging at his hand. The crackers weren’t very tasty, and had someone offered him saltine crackers as a snack he’d probably never want to eat at their house ever again, but he didn’t question it in the way he didn’t question her; indisputable, existing rationally without reason.

She’d tugged at his hand again, squeezing, asking for him to go back downstairs without any words at all. And so, he did just that. The cabinet door shut gently as he carried the box from underneath his forearm, following El down into the basement until they both settled against the floor.

It was only a few minutes afterward when he’d let himself understand how he loved her. He wasn’t sure what it was, or how it had suddenly crashed against him like the downpour he’d found her in; all he knew was that it was suddenly overwhelmingly apparent — so simply obvious he questioned how he hadn’t ever noticed it before.

She wasn’t doing anything apparently remarkable either; merely cracking the saltines in half, crumbs withering towards the carpet below them as one of her hands fiddled with the plastic that the saltines had been packaged in. But it was _her_ and she could be merely breathing and he'd still think she was remarkable. Their arms were pressed together, and one of her legs was thrown over his, and her calf was warm against the skin of his ankle, and when she looked over at him, smiling and offering a half-eaten cracker, he couldn’t help but realize how much he loved her.

It was stupidly easy, ridiculously simplistic; she was there, brightly golden from the yellow of the sunset reflected off the TV, and she was smiling with sharp teeth, and wide eyes, and it was like seeing her for the first time and the hundredth time all at once — palpable, and undeniable, and he was in love with her.

“You’re not hungry?” There was concern half-etched upon her features, and he’d realized how long he’d been staring for — how intently. He shook his head suddenly, quickly, snapping himself out of his own mind.

“No,” he said simply. “Just tired.”

She smiled, and then he loved her. Her hand, cold and gentle, looped against his forearm, and he loved her. She urged him towards her, and again he loved her, tugging at his arm until he moved to rest his head against her shoulder, his nose poking at her neck and his cheek burrowed within the hollow of her collarbone.

She pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Sleep,” she whispered, her lips still brushing against him.

He threw an arm around her waist, the other against her back as his fingers met by her hip to encircle her body and shove her closer. He wondered if should’ve said it then — he’d felt it so strongly, so suddenly within the perfect simplicity of the night.

He figured, perhaps, that he didn’t need words to clarify his feelings; that holding her tightly, trusting her naturally, leaving her to pour crumbs against the flooring of his basement as he slept beside her was just as good — just as telling.

Kissing her collarbone, he whispered, “Goodnight, El.”

He felt her breath against his skin; warm and familiar, and when she murmured, “Goodnight, Mike,” he knew she loved him, too.


End file.
